A Tale for Moonhigh
by MauMeow1
Summary: A tale is told on a moonlit night...Two cats, two clans, a dark plot, and hidden passion. A story, passed from elder to kit, of the fools who dared challenge the warrior code for their forbidden romance. Follow two lovers from their bright beginning to the sad reality of their end. (Rated T for violence. All OC. Constructive criticism is welcome!)
1. Prelude

**_Welcome to my first Warriors_ _fanfic, "A Tale for Moonhigh"!_**

 ** _I have had this fanfiction idea in my head for a very long time, but I could never figure out quite how to tell the story. Now I have finally decided on using a whimsical, storytelling format. Hopefully this little foray into a new style will help me learn more about my own writing!_**

 _ **Disclaimer: I do not own any part of the wonderful Warriors series. All rights belong to the Erins!**_

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 **PRELUDE**

Ah, Moonhigh. The perfect time for an elder's tale.

A kit like you should be fast asleep by now. And a cat like me, well, I guess a cat like me has little else to do than tell stories to cats like you. I am old and tired. All I am good for now is passing on the way of the past. So...I guess I can entertain you for a while.

I know it's hard, little kit. I know that feeling of longing, that ache of missing one who has passed to StarClan too soon. I know. And I miss her too. Your mother was a fine warrior.

What? Oh, I see. You already know all the stories about your mother. Would you like me to tell a different kind of story tonight?

How about the romantic legends of Kestrelstar, or the great battles of Shadestar?

No...those are tales for sunhigh, stories of blindingly brilliant light from far too long ago. Everyone already knows _those_ stories. We need a special story for a full moon night like this. We need a tale for moonhigh.

I will tell you a story from my younger days, a story that happened just out of your age's reach. I know a story. It's a song of secrets, of the codebreakers who dared betray their Clans for a few stolen moments, of forgotten lives and hidden passion. It's a dirge for some, a paean for others. I hear it every night, when I close my eyes and return to my days as a warrior of this Clan.

Take warning in this, little kit, for those who love too boldly are destined to fall.

Hmm...maybe...maybe I shouldn't be telling you this. I wouldn't want to...oh, whatever! I suppose I must go through with it now, since I've already given you a taste of the story.

Let's go back now. Many, many moons ago.

Reverse the days. Travel back to the days of smoke, moss, and nettle. Silence today's song and call forth a few of the whispers of the past.

Do you hear them? Do you hear the leaf-fall winds, the moonlit breezes, and the newleaf zephyrs? I do. They will aid in this tale. Little kit, do not forget them. Do not forget the whispered stories. Sometimes even the stars hold fast to forbid words. Let this ancient forest free those secrets.

And so we begin our tale for moonhigh.


	2. Chapter 1: Moss

**1.** **MOSS**

Mossyclaw is waiting. She waits for the day that his claws grow dull. She waits for the day that the starlight fades from his eyes. She waits for the end of her leader, Dewstar.

Mossyclaw is also smiling. She also lifts her tail brightly, smooths her fur, and twitches her whiskers playfully. She is being a good deputy, because she knows her time of waiting is almost through.

She pads calmly across the camp. The refreshing scents of tinted water and wet earth cling to her pelt, the mark of the river. Mossyclaw knows she is blessed by the power of the rushing waters, for she is one of RiverClan's best swimmers. Her pale fur is of the foam. Her flesh is of the river's depths.

In most cats' eyes, Mossyclaw is beautiful. Her white pelt is splashed with stripes of silver. Her blue-green eyes are deeper than any river. But no romance has she ever pursued the way that she pursues leadership. No lust for a tom has ever com close to her lust for power, not even that black-furred warrior who died at her side.

She stops outside the medicine cat den. Her son, Nettlepaw, is hard at work inside, being trained in the ways of healing by Quailclaw. She dips her head in him in greeting, and he returns the gesture with a little nod. Then she turns and leaves, as if carried by an invisible current. She follows this nonexistent stream, meandering toward the warrior's den.

A deputy has many duties, but Mossyclaw has been efficient today and earned herself a short break. She sits, relaxing. Then she suddenly recalls the border patrols she sent out earlier. Should she go check and make sure they aren't running behind schedule?

The calming song of a bird convinces her to forget about it. She has worked so hard for so very long. She deserves a rest...

She settles. She lifts her eyes to the sky and drifts off into thought.

Any cat casually milling about the camp may have seen Mossyclaw then, and they may have made an assumption about what she was thinking. Perhaps they would think she was missing her mate, Frogfoot, who passed eleven moons ago. Perhaps they would think she was merely pondering the weather, or fishing strategies, or the education of Nettlepaw. But any warrior, or apprentice, or kit who made such assumption was wrong.

The waters of Mossyclaw's mind are polluted. She is mired in her waiting, and she thinks that she will never be free. The distant river hums of fifty-nine moons ago, of promises to tom cats and prophecies from StarClan. Is she not made of this same river? Is she not compelled to follow it?

Even if she still is, she does not care.

She is lost in her waiting. The winding brook of memory carries her back, and she remembers how long this waiting has held her.

The first was lost in a fox attack. She was there when the russet beast grabbed Dewstar by the throat and flung him down, killing him instantly. She was there when he rose back up and breathed again.

The second was ended by the river. She was watching when he plunged into the flooded river after a kit. She was listening when he cried out "I'm stuck!" and was swallowed by the ragged-waved water. She was there when the river receded, and Dewstar swam up and breathed again.

The third death happened in battle. She was on the Sunningrocks with him, her pelt brushing his, when a ThunderClan warrior scored a lucky blow and brought the RiverClan leader down. She was there when Dewstar sprang back up, blood dripping from his chin, and breathed again. (This was also the day that she was declared deputy, since Galefur, the previous one, died in this fight.)

The fourth was spent going hungry during leafbare. She was told when Dewstar fell ill with Greencough, and was outside his den on the night he succumbed to it. Then, as always, she was there when he stood up and breathed again.

The fifth bled out of him in the middle of camp. She was there, crouched over him, as he died from his battle wounds. She shared tongues with him when he breathed again.

The sixth was taken by a rogue. She was fighting a mere tail's length away when Dewstar gave a cry of finality. She was saved when he breathed again and fought off the other rogue cats.

The seventh was sacrificed. Mossyclaw was watching when he threw himself in front of a dog to shield a lost ThunderClan kit. She was gasping. Then he gasped again. He stood right up and lived again.

The eighth was lost just one moon ago. She was there when he foolishly leapt at Mintstar, and saw the ShadowClan leader sink his teeth into Dewstar's neck. That was the time that she turned away, for she did not want to see when he breathed again.

Now he is on the ninth. Now Dewstar, the blustery leader of RiverClan, has rushed through eight of his star-granted lives. Now he has just one left to waste. Now Mossyclaw's waiting is coming to an end.

She is watching now, as he pads out of the leader's den. She is watching as he grooms his patched brown pelt. One last life whispers weakly within him. One last death before the deputy can rise.

Fifty-nine moons, Mossyclaw has watched Dewstar. Fifty-nine moons, she has waited.


	3. Chapter 2: Smoke

**2.** **SMOKE**

Behold, Smokepaw.

Behold, the fiercest hunter and the stealthiest warrior in all the forest! Marvel as she sneaks up on him. Her short gray pelt clings to her youthful form. Her stripes flow into the endless, dappled patterns that grace the warm, leafy ground. She is a pale shape, a specter of a stormcloud. She is weightless, she is lost in pride. She is padding heavy.

Her white paws fly, and her whiskers tingle. She wants to dance with the shadows in the game of killing. She wants the Clan of stars to see her and tremble and know her name. She wants. Like any 'paw of any Clan, Smokepaw wants. She wants all that she cannot yet have.

She slips toward her target. It seems to be working. Her yellow eyes glitter as she eagerly rushes toward him. The sunlight is caught in her eyes.

She gives herself to the task of leaping, throwing all her energy into the first jump. The forest whispers and the shadows cringe, but Smokepaw - sun-eyed Smokepaw - she is too happy to pay them any heed.

"Too slow!" her mentor hisses. He dodges her leap with a nimble bound, and she, in turn, falls flat on her face.

The wet earth is clinging to her now. There is a leaf stuck on her silly gray pelt. _Failure._

Behold, Smokepaw: the foolish ShadowClan apprentice.

Mudfeather, the wise mentor, gazes down at her. His blue eyes are clear and patient. There are no suns stuck in Mudfeather's eyes. "You stayed downwind of me," he mews calmly, returning to the previous day's lesson, "That was good, but your paws are too heavy. I already showed you this. You've got to make your pawsteps lighter, or the enemy will hear you."

"Yeah," Smokepaw replies, already lost again in all her wanting. "I'll do that next time," she throws in the promise.

She is distracted, and Mudfeather knows this. She wants _this_ and she wants _that_ , but she does not want to learn. Mudfeather, with his tawny pelt clawed ragged from many battles, knows a lot about Smokepaw. He knows of her heavy pawsteps. What he does not know, is how to fix them.

"Concentrate, Smokepaw!" he growls sternly. "Now, I want you to stalk that stump as if it's an enemy warrior. Remember, lighter paws this time!"

Smokepaw huffs loudly. Her frustration burns hot inside her. The cool forest, with its timeless whispers, cares little for her wanting, and soon she is calm again.

 _Too eager. Too excited. Too much fire, not enough to burn on._ Mudfeather is thinking now. He tries not to show this, for he must set a good example for Smokepaw by never distracting himself.

She moves further away from the stump, seeking ample space to show off her talent. She glances at Mudfeather, and stomps her paw down defiantly to show him her anger.

Mudfeather glares back. "Excuse me?"

 _Too much fire. Just like Fernfall._

She lowers herself into the traditional ShadowClan stalking position. Slowly and carefully, she moves toward her new target. She does her best to suppress the urge to speed up, to lose herself again in the thrill of dreaming. She must train now. She must face the truth of being a lowly apprentice.

She tries to imagine the stump as perhaps a ThunderClan foxheart, or a stinky RiverClan warrior, but her concentration on her steps is too strong for her to support any childish illusion.

Her paws are quicker now. She moves with precision. They are not as clumsy as before, but something is still lacking. Her steps are still heavy. Something is still wrong.

"Better," Mudfeather says carefully. His ears twitch thoughtfully as he tries to pinpoint her error. He still can't figure out what is wrong. "Better," he repeats, leaving it at that.

"What's wrong with it? Tell me!" Smokepaw growls impatiently. She unsheathes her claws and starts shredding the fallen leaves in frustration.

Mudfeather steps back, distancing himself from this impatient apprentice. The cold leaf-fall wind whistles. There is another leaf-fall, one that happened long ago, but its winds now blow only in Mudfeather's thoughts. The taste of that old leaf-fall's air is for him now, only him. The seasoned warrior is longing slightly, though he hides it well.

"You just need to practice," he meows. There is a flicker of annoyance him. It threatens to singe his patience. "You can't perfect a new move in a day, Smokepaw. Learning takes time." He sighs. His tail twitches and his ragged ears sink down. "Please, Smokepaw, just clam down a bit. I don't want to have to start threatening you with chores like the other mentors do with their apprentices!"

Smokepaw ducks her head sadly. "Okay," she mews solemnly. "I...I understand now."

He senses true regret in her now, even if it is just a glimmer. Mudfeather nods forgivingly. "All right, then. Let's head back to camp for a break."

As they begin the walk back to the ShadowClan camp, he recites another snippet of the dry speech she is all too familiar with. "As a future ShadowClan warrior," he says, "It is essential that you learn how to use stealth to your advantage. Secrecy and surprise should always be yours, and never your enemies. Most cats don't notice shadows, or they assume they aren't important, but those shadows they shame may be the most powerful things in the world! Timing is everything. You must wait for the perfect sneak attack, or all is..."

He stops, his words dying in his mouth, because he knows she is not listening. She is off to her dreams again. The sunlight has stolen her eyes. She is blinded by passing fancy.

He shakes his head. _I guess young apprentices are prone to big ambitions. Kits can't be expected to become apprentices overnight_ , he is thinking.

Meanwhile, she is thinking, _If only an apprentice could become a warrior overnight._

Their shadows, which are nothing and therefor can know nothing of true thought, merely follow them in imitation of life. But at least the shadows are honest. Smokepaw, she is followed by the shade of a small and weak cat. That apprentice, her shadow has yet to grow into all her hopes and dreams.

Her shadow pads along with no weight at all. Meanwhile, her paws fall heavy. Heavy and loud.


End file.
